


Strong Enough to Stand

by onetruealpha



Series: All the King's Horses [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternative Events to Echo House, Flashbacks, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Lacrosse, Mentions of canonical violence, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post Nogitsune, Protective Lydia Martin, Protective Scott McCall, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scott and Lydia take care of Stiles, help what have I done, otherwise canon compliant, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetruealpha/pseuds/onetruealpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incident during a routine lacrosse practice has Scott beginning to put the pieces of the puzzle together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strong Enough to Stand

Stiles tugs his number 24 jersey on over his head and glances over at Scott, who is already suited up for practice and waiting on him. It’s been a few days since they went to visit Meredith at Eichen House. He only missed a couple days of school after, and as much as it annoys him that he gave into that urge to curl under the covers and _hide_ for that time, he decides he’s going to let it go. He needs to let it go. He’s okay now. He’s not possessed, he’s not trapped in Eichen House, he’s at school about to practice his favorite sport with his best friend and the rest of the team. 

Everything’s completely fine. 

Except that Scott is watching him with this worried look that’s more than a little unnerving. And sure, he’s been watching him with that same worried look since the day he was violently barfed up by the nogitsune in Scott’s living room, but right now it’s for a different reason and Stiles needs him to _stop_ worrying for a couple of minutes at least. Chronic worrying can’t be any better for werewolves than it is for humans, and he sighs and pins him with a look. 

“Dude. I’m fine.” 

Scott looks like he wants to believe him, but he just doesn’t. “You’ve been pretty sick the last couple days, man. Maybe you should --” 

“If you tell me I should sit out this practice I’m gonna punch you in the head,” Stiles informs him even though there’s no real malice in his tone. 

He sighs and looks down at the floor. 

“Scott, I’m okay. I had a stomach bug. I’m over it. I feel okay.” He doesn’t feel _great_ , but he can’t remember the last time he did feel great, for that matter. Months ago, probably. Before he died in an ice bath to save his dad’s life. 

Scott studies him for a moment longer as Stiles finishes gearing up and pats Scott’s shoulder. “Come on man. Practice. I’m so making first line this year.” 

That earns a smile from Scott, who rises to his feet. “Hell yeah you are. I need a new co-captain,” he says. 

Stiles grins.   
_____

Practice is all going well until the moment that it isn’t. 

Stiles has the ball in his net, he’s running toward the goal, adrenaline pumping through his veins. It reminds him of that night months ago when he scored the winning shot for the team. The night that Jackson became a werewolf instead of a kanima. The night that Gerard Argent kidnapped him and beat the hell out of him. Even his good days can’t be all good. He is not that lucky. 

He’s about to shoot the ball, taking a second to calculate what angle to throw it to best catch Danny off guard when he’s suddenly tackled to the ground hard from behind. All the air rushes out of his lungs as lays face down, body aching and a vague sense of deja vu sweeps over him. 

“Nice try, Stilinski. Gonna have to do better than that to make first string,” a smug voice says as the guy’s weight remains on his back. 

Panic surges through him at the familiarity. “Get off me!” His nails dig into the ground trying to find leverage to throw his teammate off of him, but the guy laughs and thumps the back of his helmet, forcing his head back down to the ground and Stiles remembers the feel of being unable to move. The ground beneath him is grassy and not white and cold and tiled, but that’s what he sees anyway and he feels nauseated. “I said get off me!” 

“Calm down. This isn’t the first time you got tackled,” the other guy says and Stiles hears Brunski’s voice and not Rodriguez and he bites down so hard on his tongue that he can taste blood. 

“Get _off_ him!” The weight vanishes at the same moment that Stiles recognizes _Scott’s_ voice and he swallows convulsively as his best friend lays a hand on his arm, and Stiles knows that Scott is filtering his pain. He lets out a shuddering breath as he struggles to sit up, overhearing Rodriguez’s muttered _freak_ as he pulls himself off the ground where Scott shoved him away. 

Stiles blacks out.

_____

Scott is watching him carefully as he moves on the field, darting around with more energy than he’s seen Stiles exhibit for awhile and he hopes like hell it’s not all just for show. He doesn’t know what exactly is going on with his friend yet, and Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it to anyone, but maybe it’s not as bad as he initially thought it was. 

He darts around Greenburg and throws the ball toward Stiles, who scoops it up immediately in his net and takes off running toward the goal. He can’t help but grin, wishing he’d been witness to the way Stiles had won the last game of the season last year because he feels like he missed out on something vital. But maybe he won’t have to miss it again. 

Scott sees what’s about to happen right before it does happen and he winces as Rodriguez tackles Stiles to the ground, grimacing as his best friend hits the grass face-first with a painful sounding thud. But it isn’t that sound that catches his attention. It’s the sheer _terror_ in Stiles’ voice when he shouts at Rodriguez to get off him. Anger surges through Scott as Rodriguez laughs and taunts him in return and he throws his lacrosse stick down on the ground, moving toward them before Coach even blows his whistle. 

He can hear the frantic pounding of Stiles’ heart. He is terrified, and if he’s not having an active panic attack, he’s clearly about to. 

Scott isn’t gentle when he grabs Rodriguez’s arm and hauls him off Stiles’ back. “Get off him,” he growls, watching with satisfaction as the other teen hits the ground harder than Stiles had when Rodriguez tackled him. He quickly kneels down beside his best friend and lays his hand on his arm, grimacing as he leaches away the various aching in Stiles’ body. 

He tenses at Rodriguez’s muttered word, but ignores him and tries to help Stiles sit up. His eyes widen as his best friend’s eyes roll back and his body goes slack. He quickly slides his arm around Stiles’ waist to support him and throws a panicked look toward the stands where Lydia is already on her feet and running toward them. 

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” Coach Finnstock calls out, sounding nervous. 

Scott hesitates and meets Lydia’s green eyes when she kneels down on the other side of Stiles’ limp body. “I think he had a panic attack.” 

“People don’t usually pass out from panic attacks,” she whispers. “Has he eaten today? I didn’t see him eat anything at lunch.” 

“He had half a sandwich and a couple bites of apple,” Scott supplies, watching as Lydia carefully removes Stiles’ helmet. 

She pressed her hand to Stiles’ cheek. “He’s still so cold.” 

Scott holds his breath as he hears the sound of Finnstock and others making their way to where Stiles is and he wills his best friend to open his eyes. And then Stiles does and there’s fear there, the same kind of fear that he remembers seeing as Scott helped him tear old bandages off himself after he was separated from the nogitsune. 

“Stiles,” Lydia whispers and his brown eyes focus on her for a brief moment. 

“I couldn’t make them stop,” he gasps out. 

Scott and Lydia exchange a tense, worried look and Scott turns his attention back to Stiles, who’s struggling to breathe. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay, Stiles,” he whispers. “It’s okay. You’re all right now.” Even though he clearly isn’t, he has Stiles’ attention and his chest tightens painfully at the ragged sound of Stiles trying to breathe and struggling not to hyperventilate. 

“We need to get him out of here,” Lydia tells him and he nods in agreement. 

“Just lean on me,” Scott tells him, supporting the bulk of Stiles’ weight on his right hip as he rises up, pulling Stiles to his feet. 

“He’s okay,” Lydia tells Coach as she turns to face them. “He’s still getting over the flu.” 

Coach looks wary but nods. “Well get him inside and you two call it a day.” 

Scott offers Finnstock a forced smile, nodding. “Yeah, we will, Coach. Thanks.” Scott casts another worried glance at Lydia as she turns to glare at Rodriguez. 

“This is _lacrosse_ , not hockey or football. You need to be more careful,” she snaps, annoyance clear in her tone. 

Scott can’t help but smile. 

_____

Scott sits in the locker room on a bench as Stiles showers. He can hear his best friend crying silently and he has to shut his eyes because he doesn’t know what to do. And Stiles knows he’s there and he’s trying so hard not to let Scott know he’s crying and Scott knows this, and as much as part of him wants to ignore whatever is going on, he can’t. Not when whatever it is, is having this much effect on Stiles’ life. 

What kind of friend would he be if he just ignores it? 

“Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks softly as Stiles emerges a few moments later with a towel wrapped around his waist and moves over to his locker. Scott looks up at him, pained by how damned thin and pale he is. He looks like he’s wasting away. 

Stiles is silent for a moment as he yanks a t-shirt on over his head, not looking at Scott. “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“I think there is.” He stands up and blanches at the way Stiles _flinches_ at the movement. He holds his breath and swallows hard. “Stiles. Look, man. There’s nothing you can’t say to me. _Nothing._ You know that, right?” 

“I know.” Stiles still doesn’t look at him and he rakes a hand through his wet hair, his hand shaking. 

“I want to help.” His voice is soft. He watches his best friend shut his eyes, shoulders slumping. 

“There’s nothing you can do.” 

“I can listen,” Scott says quietly. “I can _always_ listen.” He hears the increase in Stiles’ heartbeat, he watches the fear that flickers over his best friend’s face for the briefest of seconds. 

“I can’t, Scott.” If he wasn’t a werewolf, he wouldn’t have heard him at all. 

“Why not?” he whispers. 

Stiles shakes his head and turns away, quickly pulling on his clothes and shedding the towel when he’s finished. He hangs it up in the locker and doesn’t look at Scott at all. “Because it doesn’t even matter, okay?” 

“Would it matter if whatever it was had happened to me?” 

Stiles’ sharp intake of breath, the stricken look on his face when he finally turns to face him, tells him that it very much matters, and it damn well matters whether it happened to Stiles or whether it had happened to him. “It didn’t. That’s what matters.” 

“Stiles --” 

“You didn’t _do_ the things that I did, Scott,” Stiles snaps. “You didn’t get people killed. You didn’t bludgeon a kid from your geometry class with a crowbar on the side of the road, you didn’t set a trap for whoever might be around to get electrocuted at the hospital. You didn’t blow up your dad’s workplace or rig an arrow to kill whoever happened to be unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time in the middle of the damned woods! You didn’t twist a sword in your best friend’s stomach! And you didn’t get Allison and Aiden killed.” His voice breaks and he looks away.

Scott remains quiet as Stiles vents his anger, but the unshed tears in his eyes reflect how much he hurts _for_ his best friend. “Stiles, neither did you. None of that was _you_ ,” he says, his own voice strained as he takes a step closer to Stiles. 

“I remember it like it was. I remember it like it was _me._ ” He rubs a hand over his red-rimmed eyes.

He reaches out and lays a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, man. I know you do. But it wasn’t you. You were being controlled the same way Matt was controlling Jackson when he was the kanima.” 

Stiles draws in a shuddering breath but doesn’t pull away. 

“Out there you said that...you couldn’t make _them_ stop,” Scott whispers, watching his face for any change in expression. “What did you mean, Stiles?” 

All the color drains from Stiles’ face, and he shakes his head, reaching out and closing his locker door. “Just stop. _Please,_ ” he whispers. “I just want to go home, Scott.” 

He squeezes his shoulder gently before letting his hand drop away. “Okay. Okay, I’ll drive you, okay?” 

Stiles nods and heads for the door, tension in every muscle of his body. 

Scott watches him go, and he has a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he follows. He’s beginning to get a better idea of what happened to Stiles in Eichen House, and if he’s right…

There’s going to be hell to pay.


End file.
